


Blanket

by kittensnrage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Johnlock?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:09:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensnrage/pseuds/kittensnrage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't always sleep the soundest. What happens one night when he does?</p>
<p>Originally posted at the SherlockBBC Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blanket

Sherlock had been out all evening, running down some clue or other. Stubbornly refusing to let John come along, as occasionally happened. A series of terse texts was the only contact John had had with him for hours, though. As midnight came and went, John sighed, setting down the book he had been reading, shivered slightly, and tried to decide whether he should make himself another cup of tea, to warm up if nothing else, it was freezing outside and slightly chilly in the flat, when his phone chirped softly. He leaned over and grabbed his phone from the table.

The text was from Lestrade. A horrible squirming, squeezing feeling blossomed somewhere south of John’s ribcage as he opened it, joined by another shiver that was only partially from the cold. Why would Lestrade be texting him now?

Uncle guilty. Credenza at bottom of pond. Uncle at bottom of pond. Phone at bottom of pond. Borrowed Lestrade’s. Did Mrs. Hudson get laundry dryer fixed?

SH

John closed his eyes, sent a quick YES, BUT NOW YOU AREN’T ALLOWED TO USE IT and trudged off to bed.

\--------------------

Ever since being shot, John had been a light sleeper.

Well…’light’ when he got any sleep at all. Restless, wakeful, nightmare prone, nighttime catnapper, more like.

Thankfully, blessedly, over the months he had lived with Sherlock, the nightmares had, if not completely ceased, at least become less and less frequent. And more often than not, he slept completely through the night.

There remained a certain degree of alertness, however. If Sherlock came in late, or went out late, or got into one of his moods, pacing around the flat…or if it was a danger night…John would awaken, determine if anything was wrong, act accordingly. If that meant he got up and…dealt with something first, or merely turned over, he would slip quickly back into restful sleep.

Which is why tonight was so very, very…strange.

He swam towards consciousness slowly, waking from a dream where he and Harry were kids again. She had taken umbrage at something he had done, or vice versa, and the two of them had gotten into a scuffle. She’d managed to get him knocked down, and was sitting straddled over his middle, pinning him to the ground. And then she started to tickle him. This, and some sort of muttered droning she’d affected, was what had finally woken him, not aggressive attack tickles and taunts, but a light, almost feathery touch, and a soft murmur that was all the more effective for its subtlety.

He glanced around blearily. Of course Harry wasn’t there. And he wasn’t a kid. But something was still pressing down on his stomach. Pressing and tickling. He gave a slight shudder as a puff of warm air drifted over his navel.

“…asfmnannnagunna…”

That snapped him into something akin to wakefulness. Blinking, he flipped back the comforter and peered beneath it.

“…mmmunnnaga…”

Sherlock’s head rested on John’s midsection, pushing up John's t-shirt, his face nuzzled into John’s belly, slightly damp curls just dusting the area beneath John’s ribcage. Somehow, he had managed to get into the flat, into John’s bedroom, underneath the bedclothes, and on top of him, like some bizarre sleepytime ninja.

John lay back and stared at the ceiling. What exactly did it mean, when your flatmate decided to sneak into your bed and start muttering sweet nothings into your belly button?

“…munsndk…blunt force trauma…”

Right. Not so sweet.

“…skjnkndmnnh...der weapon in crenzzzza…bottom…pond…hadda geddit…”

And not exactly nothings, either.

“…cold…”

Sherlock shivered and tried to burrow deeper into John’s middle.

“Enough of that, mate.” John sighed, as best he could with Sherlock’s head pressing into his midsection, and pulled the comforter back over the two of them. It was cold. They’d have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about the heat. “How much time did you spend in that pond?”

Sherlock sighed and went back to a gentle nuzzle.

“…comfable…”

And what, thought John sourly as he drifted back to sleep, exactly did it mean when your flatmate decided that your belly made an adequate, or even admirable, substitute for a pillow?

“Time to break out the trainers is what it means.”  
\---  
John woke up again, with a small sneeze, as something tickled his nose.

“…zunhiet…”

Sherlock had managed to wiggle his way up from John’s middle and now lay covering most of him, his head to the side of John’s own, his curls once again responsible for the tickling.

Groggily, John pondered an awkward conversation or two to come, but for the moment, he had to admit, that 1) it was a little easier to breathe with Sherlock like this, and 2) he was as warm as toast.

Sherlock it seemed, made and adequate and admirable substitute for a blanket.

John chuckled softly, and drifted back to sleep.


End file.
